


A Series of Thoughts, Leading to a Conclusion, of the Principality Aziraphale

by Sodium_Azide



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Wings, Bombing, Bombs, Feelings Realization, Good Omens Secret Santa, Good Omens Secret Santa 2020, Loneliness, M/M, No Dialogue, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Pre-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Protectiveness, Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28209318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodium_Azide/pseuds/Sodium_Azide
Summary: A bomb falls on a church, and an angel falls in love.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 68
Collections: Good Omens Secret Santa 2020





	A Series of Thoughts, Leading to a Conclusion, of the Principality Aziraphale

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens Secret Santa 2020 event! This was written for miserable-stuff on Tumblr, who loves the Cold Open, and particularly the church scene. I hope you like it!

There are hundreds of good-luck superstitions that the human race believes in. Little hand signs to ward off the evil eye, for example. Throwing salt over the left shoulder. Entering a house with the right foot first. Horseshoes nailed over a door. Carrying a new bride over the threshold. Everything involved in American football.

Most of these are done for tradition’s sake, either with profound belief and sincerity, or simply out of a nervous habit, because why not? Maybe it works.

Aziraphale does not have to worry about any of these things in his everyday life. He is an angel, a force of Good, and there are very few Earthly rituals or talismans that have an effect on him, even if a misguided human did wish to ward him off. He says as much in the occasional report of such human habits that he submits to his disinterested superiors. 

Despite this, Aziraphale has a categorical knowledge of every symbol, rune, ceremony, or material object that has ever been blessed or infused with power against the Forces of Darkness. If he is ever asked, this is done out of thoroughness and dedication to knowing all of the possible weapons against The Enemy. This also means that he is aware of the huge number of things, both useless and effective, that could hurt or kill the Serpent of Eden. This is also the secondary reason why he does not sleep, as his unconscious, or whatever it is that angels are blessed with, parades a constant stream of ways in which a redheaded demon might be tormented and immolated. The nightmares were too much. 

Conveniently, no redheaded demon has been seen for many decades, and in the intervening years, Aziraphale has regained his certainty in the righteousness of Heaven. How lucky, that the demon who asked so many uncomfortable questions, gave up his quest when refused an impossible item. Aziraphale only needs his divine purpose and his Heavenly tasks. He requires no companionship, no camaraderie, no food, no sleep. 

He is not lonely. 

The debacle of the Nazi double cross is shocking and deep in his heart, where he is likely to be shot momentarily, Aziraphale is a little bitter. He is always so naive. Always so ready to believe that someone would be an ally, when he was simply a means to an end, to be discarded when no longer of use. No wonder Heaven has such a low opinion of him. The paperwork to get a new body is going to take years, if they even approve the process at all. 

Crowley.

_Oh dear. Oh my. He’s here._

Crowley, sharp-jawed and sharp-dressed. A streak of dapper black, infamous and attractive, nearly dancing with pain, but with witty quips at the ready. This church is one of the few regularly used in London, and is very much holy ground. Crowley must be in agony. The font of lustral water, previously a mere backdrop, now looms in Aziraphale’s thoughts like oncoming doom. Crowley smirks, even now telling these villains of an incoming bomb, a chance to avoid their demise. The Serpent of the Tree of Knowledge. 

_The Father of Free Will_ Aziraphale thinks, in a very hidden part of his soul, very far from anywhere another angel might look for such sedition.

The droning of the bombers overhead grows closer. Aziraphale takes a breath he does not need. A demon is helpless on consecrated ground, where Aziraphale is stronger. Crowley has brought destruction that he cannot escape from by his own efforts. All to save him. Crowley will live if Aziraphale makes it so. If he does nothing, then Crowley will die. Aziraphale does not know what happens if a demon is destroyed on holy ground. 

Crowley points upward theatrically, a smile lurking in the pained stiffness of his mouth. He is not afraid.

_He trusts me._

The bomb falls. In a plane of existence slightly to the left of human visibility, Aziraphale mantles his wings. There is a demon held inside the dome of his feathers, protected from all harm. Like this, he can feel the echoes of the demons’ pain. Without thought, he lifts him into his arms and cradles him close. The building may be annihilated by munitions, a meteor may strike, a volcano may rise from below, but nothing on Earth can injure something protected by a Principality. 

_I will protect him, now and always._

All around them both, the world seems full of nothing but fire and shrapnel. The church collapses around them, stone and brick broken to pieces like a dry leaf underfoot. Aziraphale pulls as much strength as possible from the consecrated ground to reinforce the impenetrable barrier around them. The holy water in the font has vaporized into superheated steam, doubly deadly for the precious demon curled in his grasp.

The tile beneath them cracks to pieces, and the church grounds tremble. The consecration breaks. The moment it does, there is a small burnt-match flicker of a demonic miracle. Aziraphale holds the Serpent closer. He can feel the demons’ heartbeat, warm and steady.

_He is so brave._

He knows without looking that there are no living humans around. The rubble settles. Aziraphale uncurls his wings and beats them to diffuse the smoke. Crowley clears his throat, and he blushes and sets the demon back on his own feet. The demon stumbles a little, wobbling off a few steps before turning back towards him, face schooled into a calm mask that only barely covers the pleased grin that keeps trying to break into being. 

_He is beautiful._

Aziraphale’s pride is humbled, his books are lost, and although his clothes aren’t even smudged, he is tired from the effort of channeling holiness. It is more difficult, but just as effective as pulling down a Heavenly miracle, and it won’t show up on Heavens’ accounts. 

_I love him. I am the worst angelic failure that has ever been, but I do. I love him, and I will do this and so much more to keep him safe._

Crowley hands him his books, miraculously saved from destruction. Crowley offers him a ride to his home. Crowley makes his way gingerly past the fires and rubble. The demons’ feet will be slow to heal, unless Aziraphale helps him. Which he will. He will be careful. He will be quiet. He will keep them both safe. He belongs to Heaven, but his heart is his own. He is certain of so little, but this he knows.

_Oh Lord, he loves me too._


End file.
